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Guy crept forward. He cuffed my left arm to the wall, so it was completely immobile, no matter how hard I struggled. Then he kicked me in the ribs to stop my writhing and growling. He stretched my right arm out to the side, and George came at me from the other side and turned my head so I was forced to watch.
Sir Guy of Gisborne spread my fingers apart, palm down flat on the cold stone ground.
He raised the hand-axe. A foot above my hand. Poised.
“Last chance to tell me what I want to know, outlaw,” George said, holding my eyes open with both hands cupping my skull from the back.
I yelled angrily, frustrated beyond belief. Scared for the first time in George’s presence. Words were at the tip of my tongue. Duplicitous, deceitful words.
I kept them at bay and swallowed them, opting to just shout like a raving madman and feral animal.
Sheriff George chuckled at my despair. He sighed that exaggerated, indifferent sigh once again. “Very well.”
He nodded.
Guy glanced at him, over my shoulder. His eyes leveled with mine. “Apologies, Jonathan.”
And the axe came down.
Chapter 4
Robin
The boy was huddled in a cage, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He looked filthy. My heart hurt to see his face smudged with dirt streaks, the bars of his kennel keeping his lanky body confined.
He couldn’t have seen more than fifteen years in this world. Most eerily, he was whistling when we opened the cargo hold of the third carriage and found him there.
Perhaps it was his way of drowning out the morbid sounds of battle and death.
It took a few minutes to smash the bars enough to break the boy free. Meanwhile, a comrade went to check on Lewis the scout, and pronounced him dead.
Poor lad. All he wanted to do was make the Merry Men proud by giving chase to Baron Mansfield.
“That’s what heroism will get you,” Will Scarlet grunted next to me.
I scowled at him, then quickly looked away. I was so angry with him, yet this wasn’t the time or place for an outburst. He would hear about it later, in private.
The bodies littering the road were his fault, far as I was concerned. Had he not stabbed the egregious soldier Benoit through the neck, our negotiations wouldn’t have dissolved into chaos and bloodshed. My plans wouldn’t be ruined.
Unfortunately, Will Scarlet thrived on chaos. It had only gotten worse with Little John’s absence—without someone to keep the unhinged man in check.
Perhaps I need to take that job upon myself.
Friar Tuck approached the freed boy and took charge of the discussion. He had the most experience with things like this, due to the orphanage in Nottingham he helped run.
The boy sat in the carriage doorway, legs dangling over. He stared up at Friar Tuck with scrutinizing eyes, yet didn’t seem frightened. It was a wonder he wasn’t scared, being surrounded by so much death on the ground and hard men studying him.
“Why are you the only fat one in the bunch?” the boy asked Tuck, eyes veering from him to the other men over his shoulder—Alan-a-Dale, Will Scarlet, and two others.
If I wasn’t traumatized by what had just happened, I would have laughed. A few of the Merry Men did.
“I’m not fat,” Tuck shot back. “I’m stout. And it’s because I like to eat and drink.”
“Oh. I do too. But I’m not . . . stout.”
“Nay. You’re young. Give it time, lad.” Tuck shot the boy a small smirk, then took a knee so he was eye-level with him. “What’s your name?”
“Much. Much the Miller’s Son.”
